We got a taxi to the hospital and after what felt like forever—if you’ve spent time in the waiting room with a sick loved one you know what that’s like—we got to see a doctor. He examined Ezra and said he needed an ultrasound. We went back to the waiting room and the receptionist called Brent to the desk and said there was no radiologist on duty so we’d have to come back another time. By now, Ezra had thrown up everything he’d ever eaten and was completely miserable. The doctor who’d examined Ezra earlier walked by, and Brent asked him about the ultrasound. He said he’d arrange everything and came back to tell us that a driver had been sent to bring the radiologist to the hospital. Long story short, Ezra was admitted and as I held his face in my hands while they tried unsuccessfully about a dozen times to find a vein to start the IV, he looked up in my eyes through his own tears and said, “Mom, ask the church to pray.” I asked him to tell me who to text (on my phone which was about to die) and he gave me three names. Those women and their families prayed for Ezra. Then they wheeled him into the operating room, still awake. Brent and I took a taxi back to our hotel to tell our big kids what was going on. Brent was going to shower and go back to the hospital for the night. (They only allowed one parent to stay, and it was decided that the one who went to medical school was the best choice), and I prepared our big kids to fly back without us the next day since they were saying Ezra would need to stay 2-3 nights. Before Brent went back to the hospital, the five of us huddled together to pray. Brent tried to start the prayer but his voice failed. He couldn’t get a word out. Instead, our daughter Ella prayed for our little boy who was scared and worried. Brent taxied to the airport. And after a mostly sleepless night, the next morning, they told Ezra he could leave after all. Brent and Ezra made it to the airport just in time for our flight. As we were stopped for a layover, Ezra and I discussed the way we saw God show up during that scary 24-hour period. We retold the story to each other…How the doctor fought for us and the radiologist was available on his day off. How the patient rep who worked at the hospital was Canadian so she could speak English and guide us through what was going on. We talked about the airport employee, appearing out of nowhere with a wheelchair and helping us quickly move through all of the airport hurdles. We talked about Julissa, the woman who worked at our hotel who we had befriended at the beginning of the week who became my contact as I was trying to possibly lengthen our stay if we had had to remain in Mexico, but she turned out to be a fervent prayer warrior and her little church prayed for us. All of God’s provisions laid out like a road map as we named them. It’s our privilege and obligation to stop and remember God’s deliverance. We need to list these moments and remind each other that God was there all along. The Jews understood this better than just about anyone. God commanded that they have festivals and feasts for this very reason—to remember that God sees the Big Picture but He’s also in the little details. And every time we stop and remember what He’s done, we’re compelled to thank Him and worship Him.

A few weeks ago, I heard an unmistakable chirping sound as I walked through the basement to the laundry room. We had recently changed the batteries in the various smoke alarms, but we had overlooked the carbon monoxide detector mounted high on the wall. As I climbed a chair to take it down, from my high vantagepoint I noticed that the thermostat situated just below and to the right of the carbon monoxide detector was blank. Nothing was on or running. The HVAC unit for the basement doesn’t see a lot of action since the cave-lake rooms down there mostly remain at a consistently pleasant temperature, so who knows how long it had been out. I called an air conditioning repairman, and he alerted me to the fact that the drain pan which the unit sits in was full of water, resulting in the unit cutting out. Otherwise, it was operating perfectly fine. He also showed me where a slow but steady drip was winding its way from somewhere upstairs, hopping from one wire or cable or pipe to another, then eventually landing in that drain pan. Later that evening, my husband and I took turns being the upstairs-listener or the downstairs-tapper (the basement person poking a broom handle on the spot where we thought the leak originated), until we located the leaky culprit—the water line to the refrigerator. Next to enter, a plumber who had to cut a bit of the drywall behind the refrigerator to get to the spot in need of repair. With his task accomplished, our last domino fell in this particular home repair saga. The whole sequence of events—innocent chirping to blank screen to full drain pan to refrigerator leak—presented a few what-ifs. What if I were taller and didn’t require a chair to get the detector down, making me less likely to notice the thermostat? What if the drips hadn’t chosen that particular path (into the drain pan), but instead dripped behind a wall where it would go unseen, eventually causing real damage? The experience was a reminder to me that things are happening behind the scenes everyday which I am absolutely oblivious to but still affected by. For instance, how many times have I been on my way out of the house and then I’m forced to run back inside for some forgotten item making me a fraction later, but also making me miss being involved in an accident? There’s just no way to know. You can approach this reality two different ways: You can see life as a wild ride, unchecked and uncontrolled by anyone. Everything is just coincidence and good or bad luck. Or you can breathe a sigh of relief and know that my life and the lives of every single soul I encounter are tethered to a plan. There is Someone in control, and (Thank goodness!) it isn’t me. For many people, their favorite scripture is Romans 8:28, and for good reason. During those times when things seem to be spinning out of control, it’s encouraging to read: “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.”

Last week, I sat in a chair facing a group of four-year olds as they sat “crisscross applesauce” and waited for me to read a book to them. I explained about the author who was also the illustrator, highlighting his beautiful pictures and use of vibrant color. Once we had finished the book, the other teacher in the room quizzed the kids to see if they remembered what I had told them. “Boys and girls, who remembers what Miss Abby said before she read the story? Hmmm? Whose job is it to make the pictures in this book?” There was a pause, and then one little boy shot up his hand. “God?” he asked. The other teacher replied, “God gave this person the ability to make the pictures, but who makes the pictures in books?” A little girl responded tentatively, “Jesus?” “Well…no. It’s the ill…uh…sss…” the teacher hinted. A little boy shouted triumphantly, “I know. I know. Dolly Parton!” For kids who grow up going to church and hearing about the Bible, it’s a regular occurrence to have them guess God or Jesus for nearly any question posed to them. It’s seems funny and might make us think that they’re not really paying attention, but maybe their childlike, naïve answers actually demonstrate a profound and pure Biblical principle. When Jesus was comforting his closest followers in John 14, He tells them not to be troubled, because He’s going to get everything ready for them. Then He assures them that He’ll come back and get them. And anyway, they don’t need to worry since they know exactly where He’s going. One of the apostles, Thomas, says, “Hang on…we don’t know where you’re going, so how can we know the way?” Then Jesus answers with one of His most crucial and revealing statements about his identity. Jesus says, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him.” This is the sixth of the seven “I Am Statements” Jesus gives us in His Word: I am the way and the truth and the life. In those ten words, Jesus lays His claim to their allegiance to His kingdom and His calling on their lives. It’s telling that the early Christians called their church “The Way.” They weren’t afraid to be confident in proclaiming Jesus’ unique position of exclusivity. He is the only way to the Father, and yet all are welcome to join Him. Those first Christians knew that Jesus, God’s Son, is the ultimate source of truth and life. Everything He spoke on earth was true, even down to the most unbelievable claims about His resurrection. As it turns out, those bright-eyed four-year olds I read to last week were communicating a truth as old as Creation and yet as new as the mercies God poured out to me this morning—Jesus is the answer.

I have a sign in my kitchen which has been there for more than a decade. It reads: “GIVE THANKS: Oh Thou, who has given us so much, mercifully grant us one more thing—a grateful heart.” As I was looking at the sign the other day, I realized that I had no idea where the quote originated. Other than the slightly flowery wording and the outdated Thou, the sentiments could’ve been written at almost any time in history. With a little help from the Internet, I found the name of the author of those words which appear on my kitchen sign. It was written by a clergyman/poet in the 1600’s named George Herbert. He had been born into a wealthy family, but Herbert had set aside his family’s prestigious position to pursue a life of academic and religious service. He was employed at Oxford college, where he didn’t bring in much money. Some of the letters Herbert wrote to his mother survived. In them, we read of his ongoing illness, which required him to eat a restricted and expensive diet. Herbert wrote that he was in constant anxiety about money and his health. He wrote his mother, “I always feared sickness more than death, because sickness has made me unable to perform those Offices for which I came into the world.” It’s interesting to pick up a piece of poetry or prose and instantly get insight into the writer’s state of mind. No matter that it was penned so many centuries ago, George Herbert’s “Give Thanks…” seems to be a reminder to himself as much as an exhortation to others. He was telling us to declare God’s unlimited generosity. Be thankful. And for that gratitude to seep all the way down to our hearts, we need God’s help to get it there. Depending on our present difficulties, we may need even more of God’s assistance to actually live a thankful life. It’s just the unfortunate reality that most of us aren’t naturally grateful creatures. Three hundred years later, acclaimed and beloved author C.S. Lewis was also on faculty at Oxford. He left us a treasure trove of his words and thoughts through his books and letters and sermons. In a letter Lewis wrote to an Italian priest, he said, “We ought to give thanks for all fortune: if it is good, because it is good; if bad, because it works in us patience, humility, contempt of this world and the hope of our eternal country.” Whether it’s the Psalmist’s call to sing to the Lord with grateful praise or the Apostle Paul’s charge to give thanks to God the Father for everything, or if it’s a poor college professor’s reminder to ask for help in appreciating our blessings or an author’s words about gratitude in the face of both good times and bad, this Thanksgiving let’s all pray for God to give us a grateful heart.

Last weekend, our youngest son’s soccer team played in a tournament in Gatlinburg. Back in August, when they first listed it among the other scheduled games, I thought, “Outdoor soccer in the Smokies in December?! Brrrrr!” But in true Tennessee fashion, it was weirdly warmish, with the main precipitation coming in the form of pea-soup thick fog on Sunday morning. I’m an introvert by nature, preferring to avoid the spotlight in favor of watching others somewhere along the fringe. And whether you’re there for a sporting event or not, Gatlinburg is a prime people-watching location. Actually, it’s stimulus overload. But with all that we saw over the two days we were there (this includes the hordes of visitors traversing the main strip of shops and restaurants and a big black bear which wandered right up to the window of the cabin), it was the faces of the players and their parents which I was most interested in. As I’ve been writing fiction for several years, I’ve become fascinated by learning what makes people tick and using this unscientific data to influence the arc of my storyline and the backstory of my characters. Anytime a person stands in front of you, presenting himself in some particular way, there are actually thousands of experiences at work in his words and actions and choices. The smile which doesn’t quite meet his eyes or that tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth or his fingers tap-tapping on his leg. People are just so complicated. At a big tournament like this one, you see what Jim McKay, the late ABC sports announcer, would call “…the thrill of victory…and the agony of defeat…the human drama of athletic competition…” The thing I realized about myself as I watched a nearby game conclude on an adjacent field to the one where my son was warming up with his team, was that I was actually more interested in the faces of the losing team than those of the winning team. The winners jumped and cheered and hugged each other as they celebrated a hard fought victory. Not much variation there. But the losers…that’s where you see the range and depth of emotions. Some boys dropped to the ground and pounded the dirt with their fists, some offered a hand to help those teammates up on their feet, some cried unrestrained tears, and some stood motionless in despair. Then there was one 11 or 12 year-old kid who approached a player from the opposing team to congratulate him. He extended his hand in a friendly handshake, then he went along and continued shaking the hands of the rest of the team. His teammates noticed and joined in. No doubt this is his coach’s customary instruction after a game, but he did it with maturity and grace. It stinks to lose. Even someone like me who never played sports and usually shies away from competition can own up to the fact that it’s no fun being on the losing side. But when we teach our kids about integrity and good sportsmanship and perspective, and they can be consistently honorable in the face of winning and losing, they are true champions no matter the final score.

I’ve published a few books over the last eight or nine years, and something I’ve noticed when a person has read one of my books is her comments often circle around to what’s familiar to her. “This character reminds me so much of my grandmother!” or “That character grew up in my dad’s hometown!” These reviews lead me to wonder if we always consume art—reading books and watching movies and listening to music and studying paintings—with an innate desire to make connections. Are we always looking for the familiar, ultimately searching for ourselves? When our family travels and visits other cities, I often find myself glancing around the crowded airport or hotel lobby or amusement park assuming I’ll see someone I know. Maybe it’s because I live in a mid-sized city, am a member at a large church, and have four kids who’ve attended a variety of public, private, and magnet schools, and I do frequently bump into friends around town. Because of this, I operate on this notion that there’s always a friend somewhere in a sea of strangers. Whatever the reason, my mind will often begin to play tricks on me in these away-from-home spots. I’ll ask my husband, “Doesn’t she look just like our neighbor?” or “Wow! He looks exactly like your cousin!” Every so often, Brent will agree with me and say that the stranger is a doppelgänger for a person we know, but usually he doesn’t quite see eye to eye with me, making me think I’m grasping for something not quite true. Part of our flawed construction is that we’re all selfish in varying degrees. We all try to make sense of situations by passing it through the lens of our own experiences and prejudices. And this attitude can make us lean toward compassion or toward narcissism. Fortunately for us, God knows we’re made this way (of course He does—He’s the One who made us!), so He gave us the ultimate example of empathy. He sent His Son to earth in human form. He let us see ourselves in the stories of the Bible, including the ones in which Jesus was sad or joyful, angry or pleased, hungry or thirsty, tired or cared for, dying or fully restored. He experienced all of this for us. Philippians 2:5-8 “Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death—and the worst kind of death at that—a crucifixion.” (The Message)

If you’ve been inside any stores since Christmas, you know that Valentine’s Day must be just around the corner. Heart-shaped candy boxes and bouquets of red rose fill the aisles, announcing that love is in the air! But what kind of love are we talking about here? We throw around the word like it’s as valuable as a bent penny. We proclaim that we love Mexican food sometimes as passionately as we love our family. I’m the first to admit my profound appreciation for a delicious taco, but my kids and my husband would most likely appreciate a distinction between my feelings for that taco and my feelings for them. Scripture give us a nice variety when it comes to the word love, but you have to do a little digging in the original languages. In the Old Testament, we have descriptive Hebrew words like Ahavah and Khesed. They describe types of affection which are deep and lasting and full of action. In the New Testament, we have Greek words to describe the various types of love: Agape (everlasting and sacrificial), Storge (familial love), Phileo(loving your friend as if he were your brother), and Eros (romantic love—the one getting most of the attention this month). Language is so fascinating, and this is one of those times when it must expand to encompass such a complex and grand subject as love. Jesus acknowledges a few of the different kinds of love in John 21. This is the third time he’s appeared before his Disciples since his death and resurrection. Several of them went night fishing, but they caught nothing. Then Jesus shows up on the shore and instructs them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. Just as you’d expect, the nets come up bursting with fish. They recognize Jesus, and Peter dives into the water to swim to Him. The others probably shook their heads at their friend’s impulsiveness as they rowed ashore. Jesus cooked them breakfast, and then He took Peter aside to chat. Knowing how Peter felt about Jesus and knowing that he was surely still broken from his betrayal of Christ just before the Cross—three times denying that he knew Jesus—Peter’s heart must’ve been thrumming inside his chest. Would he be chastised? Would he be stripped of his position, no longer able to be part of the mission Christ had prepared them for? John 21:15-17 (CSB) When they had eaten breakfast, Jesus asked Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love (agape) me more than these?” “Yes, Lord,” he said to him, “you know that I love (phileo) you.” “Feed my lambs,” he told him. A second time he asked him, “Simon, son of John, do you love (agape) me?” “Yes, Lord,” he said to him, “you know that I love (phileo) you.” “Shepherd my sheep,” he told him. He asked him the third time, “Simon, son of John, do you love (phileo) me?” Peter was grieved that he asked him the third time, “Do you love me?” He said, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love (phileo) you.” “Feed my sheep,” Jesus said. For each time Peter had betrayed Jesus in the past, he was given the chance to proclaim his love and devotion for his risen Savior by that seashore. Twice, Jesus asked Peter for his full commitment, but Peter wasn’t there yet. He kept playing the “let’s just be good friends” card instead. On the third attempt, Jesus met Peter where he was, but he still pushed him toward how to go beyond phileo and get to agape. Jesus knew what lie ahead for Peter, so He wanted him to be all in. Jesus showed Peter (and us) that when we don’t know the state of our own hearts, a good starting place is feeding His sheep—action over words. Real love.

I work at a preschool a couple of days a week. I know that these kids ranging from one to five-years old will eventually grow up to be adults with jobs and receding hairlines and mortgages and wrinkles and car payments, but right now they’re just as quirky as can be, and I adore them. It’s crazy to me that every grown-up—every accountant, cashier, librarian, car mechanic, U.S. senator…everyone—started off as a weird, funny kid. They all had a favorite thing that held no real value but meant the world to them. Maybe it was a lovingly shredded baby blanket or a ratty stuffed animal or book they demanded to have read to them so frequently that it had to be taped and re-taped back together again. As a toddler, each of them probably had a day where they just wanted to carry around this one matchbox car or tube of chapstick or empty tissue box, and if someone tried to peel it from their chubby little fingers, they would howl and carry on like it was the end of days. They all refused to eat some type of food which they would eventually tolerate if not grow to like. (It’s curious how often those same kids who turn up their noses at broccoli try to eat the dryer lint they just fished out of the trashcan.) For about an hour of the time I’m working at preschool, I sit in a big playroom and watch classes of kids cycle through. It’s meant to be a break for their teachers and an opportunity for the kids to practice sharing and cleaning up and, most importantly, learn through playtime. They are absolutely fascinating to observe. I love to see how they work together or play alone. As long as they’re being kind and thoughtful, there’s no wrong way to build with blocks or play in the kitchen center or line up the Fisher-Price animals. When our youngest son Ezra was around 7 or 8, anytime we were on a family trip and we had to stay in a hotel, Ezra would get so excited when he saw the room had a desk. He would instantly want to play “Office.” We would unplug the desk phone (so no random calls would be placed) and line up to talk to the “Office Man.” Ezra would ask us, “What’s your problem?” and we would make up some dilemma. It was amazing. This same kid who struggled to tie his own shoes (assuming he could find them first) was solving problems like it was his full-time job (which, according to him—Office Man—it was). Lost dog? Office Man would call up somebody who could find that dog in no time. Feeling under the weather? Office Man would find medicine (which looked a lot like torn-up pieces of hotel stationery) that would cure you in an instant. Unfortunately, this hotel-office-vacation game, along with so many of the things we enjoyed when we’re younger, fails to captivate us in the same way when we get older. We become too mature, too sophisticated, and too busy for such childishness. Maybe that’s one of the best things about being around young children. Even though I’m absolutely in the adult phase of my life, I can still pretend and play. I can lose myself in a silly game. For a few precious moments, I can recapture the feeling of being a child, care-free and quirky and limited only by the boundlessness of my imagination.

When my husband Brent and I were still living in Memphis, from time to time we enjoyed shelling out $5 to attend a Red Birds baseball game. I’ve never been much of a sports-person, but these were fun summer outings with friends, sitting on blankets in the grass of a brand new stadium while only marginally paying attention to the game. On one occasion, Brent’s sister and her husband got four tickets to sit in actual seats, so we tagged along with them. The view was definitely better, and we had a great time. That is, until the people sitting behind us became overly excited about the game. Out of anger at a call or elation after a homerun—I can’t be for sure. All I remember is that one of the men behind us stood up all of a sudden and doused Brent and me with an entire cup of beer. We were completely soaked. He apologized profusely. He got us a hundred cocktail napkins to wipe off our hair and clothes, and he tried to buy us our own beers and stadium snacks, but we declined his gifts. We were pretty irritated. Undaunted by our refusals, the man somehow found a stadium official. He told them about our ill-fated story and before we knew it, there was a microphone in front of me and my face bigger than life on the Jumbotron. The cheesy guy holding the microphone declared that I was The Fan of the Game, and he repeatedly called me “Miss Budweiser.” Then he gave me this big box with a ceiling fan in it (Get it? Fan of the Game…) with lights that looked like baseballs and fan blades that looked like baseball bats. If I didn’t have Brent to back me up, I’d say the whole thing was a wacky dream. The only reason I was chosen to be the Fan of the Game was because of a man who was desperate to fix his mistake. I wasn’t really all that devoted of a fan. Anyone watching me on the Jumbotron, soaked and embarrassed, might think I was a loyal Red Birds supporter, but looks can be deceiving. If someone spent a little time with you, what would they say you support? How would they finish this sentence: “You are a Fan of _____”? Jesus gives us some insight into this in Luke 6 with his metaphor about trees and their fruit. “No good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit. Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers. A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.” In other words, the most reliable way to tell what I’m a fan of and what I value most is the way I talk and act and live—my fruit. So it’s time for me to be intentional about growing good fruit.

When I was in high school, our drama group put on the play The Miracle Worker. As was the case for most productions, I was a backstage participant. My main job for this particular show was to keep the script up-to-date with blocking, sound and light cues, and any other notes which would make the play run like clockwork. (I also sometimes ran out to get snacks and beverages for the director. If I remember correctly, she particularly liked orange juice on the rocks that semester. Showbusiness is so glamorous!) My older sister Becky, on the other hand, was cast as one of the two major acting roles—Annie Sullivan. If you’re familiar with the play or the movie or just the story of Helen Keller, then you know that Annie Sullivan is hired by the family of a little girl who had been blind and deaf since contracting a fever before she was two-years old. Annie is given the nearly impossible job of being Helen’s teacher. Through lots of persistence as well as a host of inventive teaching methods, clever little Helen is able to connect the significance of the letters which Annie painstakingly signs into her hand with the name of the actual object. The pivotal moment in the play is when Annie and Helen are by the water pump. As water pours over Helen’s hand, she gestures for her teacher to sign the word. Annie had done this many times before, but this time something clicks. “It has a name,” Annie says. “W-A-T-E-R.” You see something new in Helen’s expression. She signs the letters in response. Then she stumbles around searching for more words to discover and name. It’s such a powerful scene. My daughter Ella and I visited the place where all of those events occurred. It’s a beautifully preserved home in Tuscumbia, Alabama. We saw the dining room where Annie made her first stand against Helen’s spoiled mealtime behavior, the little house where teacher and student lived alone for a few weeks to focus on learning this new way to communicate, and the actual water pump where that critical realization happened. We also got to see what happened after Helen had that water pump moment. We saw newspaper articles and citations from world leaders. There were photos of her with U.S. presidents and actors. There were letters behind glass display cases which she had written to cousins and other family members with her own little hand when she was 8-years old. Her handwriting was remarkably distinct and precise. Giant books of raised Braille letters were scattered around the room, along with heavy typewriter-like machines used to add those raised bumps to the pages. Helen Keller went on to write 14 books and hundreds of speeches and essays. She lived an extraordinary 87 years, inspiring people and advocating for others. As we walked through the house and strolled around the grounds, I was struck by the power of words. Helen’s ability to communicate changed everything for her. She was loved and cared for by her parents before she knew what W-A-T-E-R was, but she was trapped. When Annie Sullivan came along and refused to see a little girl with no hope, Helen was given a key and her life was forever transformed. If it weren’t for that caring teacher and Helen’s own desire to learn, none of us would even know her name, let alone pay $7 to see the bed where she slept. The whole experience reminds us that anything is possible. You can understand why Helen is quoted as saying, “I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.”

I always wanted a canopy bed, a canopy bed with a frilly dust ruffle and tons of fabric draping over me as I dreamed perfect, happy dreams. Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s I believed I would have everything if only I had that canopy bed. Well, a canopy bed and Tretorns. Not necessarily Tretorns but at least some kind of name brand footwear—Keds, Sebagos, Nike Pegasus, something like that. Instead, we had what my friend Jenne called “buddies,” knock-off K-Mart sneakers with an empty white rectangle on the back of the shoe that my sisters and I would fill in with a blue marker, which unfortunately was nearly always a dry erase marker so it would be worn away by the end of the day. When we would sing that song in church about the lilies of the field and how “they toil not…and neither do they spin,” I had an idea that the lesson I was supposed to be learning was about how that stuff doesn’t really matter. “And yet I say that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these,” we would echo each other in a swelling finale to the hymn. It was moving and I knew better, but I still wanted a canopy bed. If you go back to the Biblical text of that hymn, you’re transported to a mountainside where Jesus is teaching people a variety of relatable principles—don’t worry, don’t judge others, help the needy, lay up your treasures in heaven. His Sermon on the Mount is compared to Moses delivering the law to the Israelites so many generations before. In the middle of Jesus’ sermon, he offers this object lesson. Birds are flying above his head, and He says “God takes care of them. Don’t you think He’ll care for you?” Then He says, “Look at these flowers. They don’t have to do anything to be beautiful—even more beautiful than the clothes worn by a fancy dresser like King Solomon—and God did that. And He did it for these flowers which will be gone in no time.” The next part of Jesus’ sermon is pretty convicting, especially if you’ve been enviously eyeing someone else’s car or home or other possession. Jesus says if you’re eaten up with worry over what to eat, what to drink and what to wear, then you’re no different than those who don’t know the Secret of the Gospel. He says to calm down, because God knows you need those things, but worrying over them isn’t the answer. “But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (NIV) I don’t think He’s saying that we shouldn’t work hard at our jobs or never go grocery shopping. Jesus actually got frustrated with the people who were following him around later on because they seemed to only want Him to feed them again, like the time He divided a little boy’s lunch into enough food to feed thousands. Instead of getting caught up in the details, He advises us to begin by seeking His kingdom. As Eugene Peterson puts it, “What I’m trying to do here is to get you to relax, to not be so preoccupied with getting, so you can respond to God’s giving… Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. Don’t worry about missing out. You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met.” Now that I’m an adult and not an adolescent pining away for name brand shoes and a canopy bed, I’d like to think I’m beyond the reaches of such immature, materialistic transgressions, but I still have those moments where I’m tempted to futilely toil and spin my heart out. So today I’ll choose to be grateful for what I do have and focus on the God who makes it all possible.

Other than your regular holidays—ones like Christmas, Thanksgiving, Mother’s Day, Arbor Day—there are some pretty crazy celebrations that a handful of (probably very invested and enthusiastic) people choose to celebrate. From “Fruitcake Toss Day” in January to “Wear Brown Shoes Day” in December and a bunch in between, such as the one on May 21st called “Talk Like Yoda Day,” everyone can find a reason to party. Even though we may already have an overabundance of holidays on the calendar, may I still propose new one? I’m not planning to make it official with an act of legislation or anything, but I am working on the name, possibly “Tell Somebody What They Mean to You Day.” You see, I’ve been spending time with a group of women, and we’ve been taking turns telling our stories. Even though I already knew most of these women fairly well, I’ve learned so much about them. I learned about their childhoods and their parenting experiences, and most of all, I’ve learned about their faith journeys. And for each of these women, they’ve mentioned someone other than a family member who loomed largely in their lives. They each had at least one person who stepped in a gap left by loss or doubt or natural consequences. Someone who showed up at just the right time and spoke spirit-filled words of encouragement and love and even reproof. After an anecdote about this angel in disguise, all of us would often say something like, “And to this day, she probably has no idea what she means to me.” This exercise got me thinking: Who needs to hear this from me? Who are the people in my life who I rarely see anymore, but I would’ve been lost without their intervention? Who are the ones who modeled for me how to be a godly woman? Who are the precious souls who are walking around this world every day—doing normal things like folding laundry or making a sandwich or walking a dog—and they have no clue what their words and very presence have meant to me? So I texted the woman who popped into my mind first, and I told her. I let my friend know that she made a giant difference in my life. I told her that she was my gold standard for compassion and leadership. Not that the date was especially significant, but I told her on May 11th. I’m not saying that this should be the annual date for “Tell Somebody Day,” but it’s a start. There’s no reason to wait until next year. Go ahead and tell someone today. It’s like the lines from that Garth Brooks’ song: “’Cause I’ve lost love ones in my life/Who never knew how much I loved them. Now I live with the regret/That my true feelings for them never were revealed. So I made a promise to myself/To say each day how much she means to me. And avoid that circumstance/Where there’s no second chance to tell her how I feel.”